what was she? Julian tried to hug and soothe himself in the unworthy remembrance of Cuckoo's monotonous life and piteous deeds, to reinstate himself in contented animalism by thoughts of the animalism of this priestess! He laughed aloud under the stars, but the laugh rang hollow. He could not reinstate himself. He could only wearily repeat, "What the devil's come over Cuckoo?" with an iteration of dull, moody petulance. A hansom suddenly pulled up beside him and a voice called: "Julian! Julian, where are you coming from?" It was Valentine. He was muffled in a fur coat, and stretched himself over the wooden apron to attract his friend's attention. "I have been to your rooms," he continued. "Don't you remember we had arranged to dine together?" Julian looked at him without animation. "I had forgotten it," he answered. "Your memory is becoming very treacherous," Valentine said. "Where are you off to? Get in. I will drive you." "I hadn't any plan," Julian said, getting into the cab. "Drive to the Savoy," Valentine called to the cabman. "I want some supper," he added. "I can't come in. I'm not dressed." "We will have a private room, then. Have you dined?" "I? No." Valentine looked at him narrowly. "Have you been in the Marylebone Road again?" he asked. "Yes." "Why?" "I don't know." The answer was the bald truth. In making it Julian experienced a slight feeling of relief. He was putting into words the vagueness that perplexed him. He wondered why he did go to see Cuckoo. "But you must know. You must have a reason," said Valentine. "If I have I don't know what it is. I wish you would tell me, old fellow." "I can't supply you with reasons for all your actions." "And I can't supply myself with reasons for any of them," Julian said slowly. The words were leading him to a dawning wonder at his own way of life, a dawning desire to know if there were really any reasons for the things he did. But Valentine did not accept the reply as satisfactory. On the contrary, it evidently irritated him still more, for he said with unusual warmth: "Your reason for dropping your engagements, throwing me over and wasting my evenings is quite obvious. The blessed damozel of the feathers is attractive to you. Her freshness captivates you. Her brilliant conversation entertains you. She is the powdered and painted reason of these irrelevant escapades." "Don't sneer at her, Val." The words came quickly, like a bolt. Valentine frowned, and a deepening suspicion flashed in his eyes. "I did not think you were so easily flattered," he continued. "Flattered?" "Yes. Cuckoo Bright admires you, and you go to number 400 to smell the rather rank fumes of the incense which she burns at your shrine." "Nonsense!" Julian cried warmly. "What other reason can you have? She has no beauty; she has no conversation, no gaiety, no distinction, no manners--she has nothing. She is nothing." "Ah, it's there you're wrong." "Wrong!" "When you say she is nothing."